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“This really isn’t the kind of thing I can afford to joke about right now,” Stiles yells after him when Danny turns to leave the locker room.

He doesn’t actually mean to continue this conversation, but losing one’s virginity really kind of sucks and of course it’s all easy enough for Danny to make light of. Danny’s been studmuffining around since he shot up six inches in seventh grade and made the entire male population of Beacon Hills Middle School question both their sexuality and their success at undergoing puberty in one fell swoop.

He also doesn’t expect Danny to give him the time of day, but there he is, leaning against the cinderblock wall when Stiles trudges through the door. Seeing him there is only slightly less surprising than running into the entire alpha pack wearing nothing but lederhosen. “So...what’s the big deal?” Danny asks.

Stiles eyes him askance. “Do you really want to know or are you just kidding again? Because I can see this getting really old really fast.”

“Fine.” Danny adjusts his shoulder strap and manages to flex about a thousand perfectly honed muscles in the process. “Don’t tell me why you were screaming about how having sex is literally a matter of life and death. I can find other things to do tonight anyway.”

“Nine,” Danny says again, and Stiles doesn’t even care if he’s serious or not by now; this is only the second time he’s ever been propositioned in his life and it can’t possibly end any more tragically than the first time. “Your dad’s the sheriff, right?” he adds. “Maybe you should stop being so nosy about the stuff he investigates. That can seriously screw you up.”

This is both the worst and the soundest advice Stiles has heard in quite some time, but by the time he thinks of a pithy response to it, Danny’s already disappeared through the exit to the parking lot.

“Dude,” Scott says, coming up behind him with that ridiculous werewolf stealth that never fails to make Stiles jump out of his skin, “what just happened?”

“Just what?” Stiles feels a hysterical giggle building in his throat. “Just fucking with me? Was that what you were gonna say?”

“No.” It’s amazing how terrible of a liar Scott is even now. “Are you really going to do this? Maybe Lydia--”

“And maybe not.” The idea of turning to Lydia for what basically amounts to a pity fuck turns his stomach. Lydia has plenty of baggage of her own without Stiles adding his to the pile. “Hey, do you have any idea how to figure out condom sizes?”

Scott’s face flits through about a dozen different expressions in five seconds flat. “Get a variety pack?”

“Right. Okay. You, my friend, are a sex god and I’ll text you later to let you know I’m alive.” Stiles grins at him, giddy. Holy shit, he might actually be able to get rid of his virginity problem before the night’s over. “Promise. So no turning your phone off until you know for sure I’m not going to end up killed three different ways.”

“Fine, whatever,” Scott says long-sufferingly. “Oh, and ask him if he waxes his chest. Stop doing that thing with your eyebrows, I know you’re curious too. And, uh, good luck, I guess?”

Stiles has just enough restraint to keep from doing cartwheels across the gym.

---

It’s 8:54 when he manages, after four attempts, to parallel park his Jeep in front of Danny’s house without taking out any mailboxes, fire hydrants, or the little old lady walking her corgi.

It’s 9:05 by the time he’s successfully texted Scott a status update, checked his backpack to make sure everything is in place (change of clothes, towel, deodorant, phone, toothbrush, pill case, bottle of ibuprofen because who fucking knows, lube, and two boxes of condoms because how the hell was he supposed to tell whether Trojans or Durex were superior), and remembered how to breathe.

Then he forgets how to do it all over again when he rings the doorbell and a twelve-year-old girl answers it.

“Are you my brother’s nine o’clock?” she asks, once she’s apparently realized Stiles is good for nothing except standing on the front step and probably turning green.

Stiles gapes. It all makes sense. Danny is running a one-man devirginizing business out of his bedroom. Clearly. Is nothing sacred in this town? Does he even care anymore?

“Um,” he chokes out. “Maybe?”

The girl rolls her eyes, opens the door wide enough to let him in, then hollers over her shoulder. “Danny!”

Danny comes gliding down the stairs like a pissed off prom queen, still in that green V-neck that obligingly draws Stiles’s eyes to the shadowy little notch between his collarbones. No chest hair. Maybe Scott was right. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering. “Hey, um, I--”

But Danny isn’t even acknowledging him. “What the hell, Kimberly, I said to be gone by 8:30.”

The girl sighs explosively. “I don’t want to spend the night at Nora’s. She only ever wants to watch High School Musical shit and play Just Dance.”

For a split second, Danny’s dimples flash out and Stiles’s heart rate promptly triples. If Danny turns out to be a werewolf, he’s so fucking screwed in so many ways. “Look, you can go through my DVDs, okay? Take anything you want that’s not rated R, take this,” he slaps a twenty into her hand, “and get lost.”

Stiles’s mind is reeling. “Whoa, you’ve got this down to a science, huh?”

Kimberly turns away from Danny and regards him with aristocratic disdain. “He looks like he’s gonna puke on you. What happened, I thought you were crushing on that other g--”

In one smooth movement, Danny claps a hand over her mouth and steers her towards the hallway. “Get. Out.”

Stiles is just standing there frozen, one hand stuck mid-wave.

Danny nods at him, and it could be Stiles’s imagination but he thinks he might also be giving him a quick up-and-down too. “You made it.”

“Yeah, uh. You said nine, so I came,” fuck, fuck, don’t say came, “I mean, so I figured, you know. Here I am.”

It’s not that Danny’s a bad host. Danny is actually really nice about making sure Stiles gets upstairs without stumbling over his own feet, getting him a bottle of water when Stiles has trouble forming full sentences, and setting his backpack over on the desk chair (one-handed, even, and Jesus, Stiles needs to start going to the gym or something because every guy he knows is about ten times more ripped than he’ll probably ever be in his life). It’s just that he clearly knows what he’s doing and Stiles clearly doesn’t. And normally Stiles has no problem rising to a challenge, but now he’s perched on the edge of Danny’s bed with every gay porno he’s ever seen flash-forwarding through his brain and he can’t for the life of him figure out how he’s supposed to make the leap from fantasy to reality.

Then Danny sits down next to him, all muscle-bound and debonair and dimply and smelling really fucking good. “How’s Miguel?”

“Who?”

Danny’s dark eyes narrow. “Your cousin. The one with the...” and he taps Stiles lightly between the shoulder blades. Right where Derek’s tattoo is. Stiles’s skin breaks into goosebumps.

“Maybe we should just skip the pleasantries,” says Danny. “So you’ve never done anything with a guy before?”

“I never said that,” Stiles protests automatically. “There’s just this thing with, you know...superhuman serial killer, virgins dying, me not wanting to die.”

“Uh-huh.” Danny looks a little skeptical, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to defenestrate Stiles and laugh his ass off either, which is good. “If this is happening, you need to chill.”

“I’m incredibly chill,” Stiles lies. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t chill. I mean, I researched this, it’s not like I have no idea what’s gonna happen or anything, and I kind of owe you after you traced that text for me last year anyway.”

“You’d better not just be here because you think you owe me,” and Danny’s voice is really close now, up-against-his-ear kind of close, and Stiles has never been more turned on by someone reprimanding him so he goes for it--turns his head, catches Danny’s mouth quick and hard, before he can think better of it. First base rounded, no going back.

He sort of expects Danny to sigh at him for doing it wrong, but all he gets in return is the feel of Danny’s fingers threading through his hair, Danny’s lips curving against his cheek and then easing back. There might be dimples. Stiles can’t seem to make his eyes open enough to check. “Hey. You’re not going to shut me up that easy, but points for trying.” And he tips Stiles’s head up a little more and leans in for a second kiss, slower and more languid.

Stiles is gripping the bedspread like his life depends on it. He can’t find the facilities to make himself respond, even though this really is a matter of life and death and tearing Danny’s duvet has nothing to do with it.

Danny sits back and gives him a wry look. “Don’t act like you can’t open your mouth more than that. I’ve known you since third grade and your mouth is always open.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes to have Stiles laughing and twisting his fingers in that stupid green shirt and pressing his tongue into Danny’s mouth until neither of them has the presence of mind to focus on anything but touch.

---

The dimples show up a lot.

Danny laughs in bed, which is so different from the deadpan demeanor Stiles is used to seeing on a daily basis. He laughs when Stiles gets tangled up in his own jeans, but reaches over to kiss him and help him yank them the rest of the way off before Stiles can feel too self-conscious about it. He laughs when Stiles’s fingers trail down his flanks and find a few ticklish spots in the process. He laughs for what feels like ten solid minutes when Stiles mentions he’s got a full bottle of lube and two boxes of condoms in his backpack.

“Kind of ambitious, don’t you think?”

“Hey,” Stiles protests mildly, since Danny has his mouth on his neck and his hand around his dick and there’s really nothing to protest except maybe the odd premature orgasm, “I was just planning ahead.”

“Is that why you were throwing condoms around in Finstock’s class? Was that some kind of hint?”

“I hate you,” Stiles declares, and rolls them so he’s straddling Danny’s hips. It’s like scaling a really sexy mountain, getting to have Danny all bare and hard and sprawled out under him like this. His head falls back when one of Danny’s hands curls around his hip and the other palms down his middle again and again but always stops just short of touching his cock. “I mean it, I hate you and I’d totally be, like, moaning in the throes of passion right now if I wasn’t worried about someone hearing.”

“I paid off Kimberly and my parents are out at this networking gala. They won’t be back till late, so they won’t even notice a random Jeep in front of the house. Besides,” Danny sits up and licks slowly over his nipple, making Stiles hiss, “they trust me.”

Danny is an excellent listener when he wants to be. He smooths his big hands up Stiles’s back and down to his ass, sucks at his nipples until Stiles’s belly is sticky with precome and his throat is raw from yelping and cursing and whatever else one does in the throes of passion. If he angles his hips a certain way, he can get his hand around both their dicks at the same time, but it’s too awkward a position for him to do more than just ride his own against Danny’s. And that’s all well and good too--fuck, is that good, he even hears Danny say so, which does wonders for his delicate virginal ego--but there’s still a crucial step of this process Stiles would really like to make before he comes all over his hand.

Which is how he winds up on his back with Danny sucking a bright purple mark into the join of his thigh and not seeming to give a fuck that Stiles is tugging his hair and smearing the damp head of his cock against his cheek. He should feel vulnerable and out of his depth, but all he can think is more, now, yeah and try to strain his legs apart even further.

Danny's hands are everywhere--stroking the underside of his cock, rubbing against his chest, cupping his balls and gripping just firmly enough to have Stiles whimpering. When Danny finally, finally reaches for the lube and arches an eyebrow at Stiles, it’s all Stiles can do not to kick him for being a cocktease. “Did I mention this is a matter of life and death?”

“I think I caught that the first few times you said it, yeah,” says Danny, and then he glides tip of one finger until it’s resting against Stiles’s hole, not pressing in, just fucking waiting. And Stiles gasps for air and grips himself hard at the base of his dick even as his hips jolt, trying to get more.

Danny teases the tip of it inside him and Stiles’s heartbeat is resonating in his head like a war drum. “Have you ever had anything in you?” he asks, like now is the time to resurrect chivalry or whatever.

“Fingers,” Stiles breathes, his body shuddering from the effort of getting the word out.

“Yours or someone else’s?”

“Weren’t you the one telling me to be less nosy?” Stiles demands, and then Danny’s finger slides in the rest of the way and holy fuck he’s going to start hyperventilating. He clenches down, tries to squirm away from the sensation, then tries twice as hard to roll his hips and encourage it. “Fuck, mine, okay? Not all of us have sex lifes so insane we have our little sisters playing secretary.”

Another finger inside. Stiles is so hard his dick is practically flush with his stomach. He doesn’t trust himself to touch it, but he’s not sure what to do with his hand either so he settles for gripping his own hair. “Fair, yeah, whatever you want, just keep going.” And Danny just smiles at him like it’s no big deal he’s making Stiles fall apart on his fingers. “How...how does it feel?”

He’s clinging to the covers again, but Danny urges his arms over his shoulders and Stiles squeezes there instead. “Really good.” Danny’s voice is soft, lips even softer against his own. “You need to try and loosen up for me, though, okay? Think about how it feels when you do it to yourself. I bet sometimes you want more, right? I bet sometimes it feels like your fingers aren’t enough.”

The accuracy really couldn’t be more perfect. Stiles flashes a smirk. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

And Danny just finger-fucks him a little more roughly, until Stiles’s nails are digging into his back and his eyes are rolling back in his head. “Fuck...okay, thinking, relaxing, yeah.”

“Good.” Danny kisses him, slow and deep and all tongue.

Stiles whines, sucks at his lower lip, tries to put up a fight when Danny’s fingers slip free of him. The next thing he knows, Danny’s taking one of Stiles’s hands in his own and drizzling more lubricant over it until it’s dripping onto his stomach.

“Here,” Danny is saying, his voice vibrating against Stiles’s cheek, and it actually takes Stiles a minute to realize what’s going on right up until he feels his own fingers being guided against his slicked-open hole. “Show me what you do to yourself.”

There’s really no other response to that. Stiles is turning his face into the pillow, jerking himself with one hand and stretching himself open with the other while Danny slides on a condom.

Stiles isn’t sure where it came from and he really doesn’t care, but fortunately it seems to fit and Danny seems to know what he’s doing and that’s all that matters. The next several seconds are a blur of Danny pressing a kiss to his anklebone, making Stiles’s toes curl, then notching that ankle over his shoulder and obligingly bending in for a long and bruisingly hard kiss when Stiles pulls him close.

The dimples are back. “Ready for me to save your life?”

Stiles’s back practically arches off the bed. “God, yeah.” He slits his eyes open. “Actually, you should’ve just said ‘come with me if you want to live.’ Seriously, if now isn’t the time to use that line, then--”

Then Danny snaps his hips forward and Stiles completely forgets how to form words.

---

He doesn’t end up needing the painkillers.

Or the towel, for that matter, since Danny is an amazing human being and actually takes the time to wipe them both down and ask Stiles if he’s okay before lying back down and--there’s really no other word for it--spooning him like a champ.

“You said you were kidding about the cuddling,” Stiles points out muzzily.

For a long while, Stiles just lies there and lets himself be held. It doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as he was afraid it would, being naked in another guy’s bed after being fucked up against the headboard of said bed. Maybe he’s just gradually becoming immune to uncomfortable situations. “Okay,” he finally says carefully. “I can’t actually promise that, but there are people--and I use that word really, really loosely--who are trying to make shit less crazy. Can you just trust me?”

He turns and sees Danny looking at him intently, brow furrowed. Stiles sinks back against the sheets, impulsively hooks a leg over his hip and lets their foreheads rest against each other. “And thanks, by the way. Maybe we could do coffee or something sometime.”

“Probably not,” Stiles agrees, closing his eyes and trying to let himself rest, but there’s a web of trepidation starting to weave its way around his nerve endings. “What about the trusting-me part? Because that’s something maybe I do need in my life.”

He’s dying to ask a thousand more questions, to learn how much Jackson might have told Danny or just how many variables Danny has managed to put together by now, but since last year Stiles has learned a lot about keeping his questions to himself until he’s absolutely sure they need to be asked.

There’s no answer, so he gives Danny a gentle nudge. “Hey. Danny. What about that part?”